


Mr. Fletcher

by usandthem



Category: Phineas and Ferb
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 06:36:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18585781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usandthem/pseuds/usandthem





	1. Married Man

Mr. Fletcher lives down the road from you. He has three children and a wonderful wife. He owns an antique shop and has a quirky British accent. Sometimes, his two sons build contraptions in the backyard, most of which you can clearly see through your bedroom window. To you, he seems like the perfect family-man with a quaint, stable life. You've only talked to him a few times upon passing by. Nothing more than a "hello, Mr. Fletcher" or "good morning". And of course, he says to you, "’Ello there!" in that silly voice of his, with a timid, yet beaming smile. Something about the way he smiles always puts you at ease. You don't remember when it started, but recently you've found yourself drawn to him. Around the time you wake up, Mr. Fletcher steps outside to pick up the paper; you make a note of that. At 3pm, he mows the lawn; you make a note of that. Sometimes, when the sun is about to go down, Mr. Fletcher steps out on his front lawn and takes in the evening breeze. It's around this time you like to walk by.

You pull out your phone, as to not look to invested, and you make your way towards the Flynn-Fletcher house. You make eye contact first, but he says the first word.

"Well, ‘ello there!"

"H-hello." Your voice shakes a little. You are talking to a grown man after all. Despite Mr. Fletcher being the least intimidating man you could imagine, you're sweating a little. You don't have anything in particular to talk about, but you want to stand there with him as long as you can.

“Watcha doin’?” You cringe a little. What a middle-schooler thing to say.

“Why I’m just ‘aving a pleasant time ‘ere enjoyin’ the breeze! What a nice day it is, innit?”

“Yeah, it’s peaceful.” You look up at him. “Does it ever get tiring with three kids in the house?”

He looks down at you, then turns his gaze to the sunset sky. He laughs. “Well, yes. I suppose it does.” He looks back down at you, those wide eyes making you heart skip a beat. “But I’ve got my moment of quiet ‘ere to keep me goin’.”

“Oh,” you reply. “I hope I’m not bothering you.”

This catches him off guard and you can see faint concern in his eyes. “Of course not. It’s nice to have some company, and you’re much more easygoing than my kids.” That sheepish smile returns and he breaks eye contact.

It’s astounding how a man can be so soft spoken and delicate. What a comfortable energy and what a pretty face... and those small, cute lips. You stand there, wondering if he has any idea at all, in that perfect suburban life he lives, just how you feel about him.


	2. Compulsion

Your schedule as of late has revolved around the ins and outs of Mr. Fletcher. Even when you try to keep him out of your mind, you subconsciously look out your window when you wake up, at 3pm, and at sunset, and you've made it a habit to take a walk at least once a day. You haven't stopped by since last time. Sometimes, he's too lost in thought to notice you walking by, but when he does, he gives you that jolly greeting of his and it rushes the blood to your head. You don't know which you prefer. Everything you do tingles with a certain surrealism now. This promiscuous secret of yours flows through your veins and you feel it burning under your skin. But he's just so attractive. So attractive. Your fingers hesitate as you bring the camera up against the window. The day was still bright and the lights in your room are off. There's no way anyone can see what you're doing right now. _Click_. A new angle now. _Click_. Closer, more in focus. _Click click click_. Different clothes, better lighting, he's stretching today.

Two hundred eighty-five pictures. Exported to three devices. It's fine, paparazzi do the same.

He doesn't think about you. Why would he? You think about him, in your bed, in your arms. He thinks of you only when you're passing by and perhaps is reminded of your sweaty neck and awkward way of speaking. 

_Mr. Fletcher. Mr. Fletcher. Mr Fletcher._

The more you think about him, the more perfect of a man he seems. Gentle and caring. Intelligent but humble, and has a modest attitude when he talks in that lilted voice of his. It's dreamy, and enticing, and tempting, and infuriating. What you can't have. What seems so perfect in every way. You watch him rest his hand on his cheek and deduce that his face must be soft and tender to the touch. You wonder if the rest of his body follows suit. You wonder if he, a seasoned family-man, would react in surprise if a young body such as yours brings hot sensations to his neck. Perhaps the areas of his body that long for more attention have been tucked away and neglected. It's often true that the more timid the man, the more lust they have buried in the subconscious. 

Perhaps Lawrence Fletcher longs to be used, stimulated, and at your mercy.

The thought pleases you.

 


End file.
